


kneading you badly

by orphan_account



Category: Canada's Drag Race RPF, RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Bakery, BUT the rest of it is T rated !!, F/F, Fluff, Lesbian AU, Mutual Pining, but i wanted to be. you know. 100 percent safe, im not sure it even counts as anything but here we go, literally less than 100 words at the end, not that priyanka realises bc she's a useless lesbian, rated E literally for the last tiny bit in chap 2, rita is the only person with a brain i swear to god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lemon is a young and promising dancer at a prestigious academy, and Priyanka is a university student who works part-time at the bakery where she buys a pain au chocolat at the exact same time every morning.( credit to @ stillmumu for the title !! go check her out on ao3 and tumblr <3 )[Chapter 1 is rated T; chapter 2 is mostly rated T, except for the last ~100 words, which are rated E.]
Relationships: Lemon/Priyanka, Priyanka/Lemon
Comments: 35
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> lemyanka deserves more content so i'm deciding to do my best in providing SOMETHING for them because they own my heart and soul
> 
> this fic is unbeta'd !! any mistakes are my own
> 
> i'd really appreciate any concrit or comments, and if you want to chat more, my drag blog on tumblr is sportcox !!
> 
> i hope you enjoy! <3

Priyanka’s pretty sure she’s the only person on the planet who looks _forward_ to waking up at 6 am on a weekday: the still, grey peace of the world before it shifts into second gear; the crisp, dewy chill of the early morning air; the undisturbed birdsong - and the fact that she has the opening shift at the bakery, when the shop’s at its quietest and the few customers that come in feel less like clients and more like long term acquaintances.

… And, if she’s being completely honest, the regular that shows up at 8:07 sharp every morning to buy a pain au chocolat, so predictable and precise that it’s like clockwork. At her core, Priyanka _hates_ mornings; she’s learned to romanticise them to provide some justification for constantly taking the earliest shift other than ‘there’s this _gorgeous_ girl who buys breakfast and I’d rather get less sleep to see her’.

Lemon _is_ gorgeous. She’s this small, slender thing with straight blonde hair down to the small of her back, who smells like summer citrus in a way Priyanka now knows is intentional and moves as though every action is an art piece. She’s a _dancer,_ training at the most prestigious academy in the country - in the _world_ \- and Priyanka hasn’t yet seen the barest hint of weakness nor pessimism on her pretty face, which she _assumes_ means that Lemon is _good,_ because Kiara knows a _lot_ of the girls there on account of helping out with their big productions, and it’s apparently hell on Earth.

The clock on the wall to her right reads 8:06. She watches the seconds hand slowly map the perimeter of the face, then follows the tiny drop of the minutes hand as it ticks over onto 8:07.

She turns to the door as it swings open, bell jingling. As though she’s running on code, Lemon steps into the bakery, wearing an oversized yellow sweatshirt that stops midway down her naked thighs - and Priyanka _tries_ not to stare at her pale, bare skin, feigning ignorance and busying herself at the till until the other girl approaches.

Pretending that she hadn’t expected her arrival is pointless, however, because the both of them _know_ each other now. Their routines have changed to accommodate one another’s presences, like how Priyanka always has Lemon’s order set aside waiting, and how she never checks the change because she knows it’s always right. The transaction is clean and painless, requiring no communication, and the only thing that’s changed is the way Lemon’s fingers linger against Priyanka’s palm when they exchange money.

(But that could just be her overactive imagination.)

Lemon slides into the stool nearest the till like she always does and unwraps her pain au chocolat with love, cramming it halfway into her mouth with a groan that makes Priyanka _restless._ _“God,”_ she mumbles, covering her mouth with her hand, “I needed this today.”

“Is today special, or something?” Priyanka asks, and Lemon pins her in place with an urgent, lemur-like stare, swallowing prematurely so that she can speak.

“Oh, yeah. They’re doing, like, evaluations this week, and everyone’s just a bit -” she shakes one hand out in an exaggerated imitation of a tremor - “crazy right now. A lot of people seem pretty scared that the instructors are gonna give them a bad judgement, so we’re all running around like chickens with our heads cut off trying to make sure we’re all super polished and have our shit together for the actual dances.”

She takes another bite of her pain au chocolat, humming appreciatively, and Priyanka tends to another customer in the meantime. “I’m not worried about the _assessments,_ like, I know I’m gonna kill ‘em,” she continues, with an easy confidence that’s enviable, “but it’s just so _much._ Three solo dance pieces, one group choreo, three essays, two presentations -”

“Fuck me,” Priyanka mutters sympathetically. Lemon nods.

 _“Tell_ me about it. I’ve already memorised my lines for the presentations, so that’s not a big deal, and I’m really looking forward to the solo pieces, because I don’t have to rely on anyone else to turn it out, but the group performance...” she winces. “I know _I’ll_ smash it, but when it comes to team cohesion? It… it could go either way. Some of the girls in my group have been known to be… difficult to work with.”

Judging by the disdain in her eyes, difficult is an understatement. Priyanka doesn’t understand what goes into a group dance, but any projects in university that rely on teamwork are almost always hell.

“Will it affect you, though?”

Lemon shrugs. “Can’t really say. If I’m _really_ good, it’ll probably be negligible, but there’s no guarantee. I just know I have to be strong enough everywhere else for it to not matter in the grand scheme of things.”

Priyanka can’t say she knows anything of Lemon’s abilities - it’s all educated guesswork, speculation born from embarrassing hours spent daydreaming whenever studying is particularly slow - but the girl’s eyes are so sharp, so determined, that she doesn’t doubt that she’ll do brilliantly. “You’ll be fine,” she says decisively. Lemon smiles.

“To be fair, I kind of _like_ the evaluations. They usually use them to choose people’s roles in upcoming productions, so you get a pretty huge reward for all your hard work.” Priyanka makes an _oh yeah?_ sound, and Lemon sighs. “It’s just the stress from everyone else that’s exhausting. That, and getting up, like, before the sun. I’m an early bird, but not _that_ early.”

She shrugs. “Honestly, recently, I’ve started wanting to just sleep in, you know? At this point, you and these pain au chocolats are the _only_ good things about my mornings. Everything else is just -” white noise and whirring. Priyanka’s thoughts stumble over themselves in an attempt to rationalise Lemon’s casual inclusion of _her_ as a _good_ thing - one of _two_ good things, in fact, the other being the pain au chocolats that _she_ gives her - and come up empty-handed.

 _It’s just the pastries,_ she insists, as though they haven’t been chatting for months. _It’s just the pastries! ‘But what if it’s not just th -’ It’s just the pastries._

Lemon waves a hand in front of her face, dragging her back to Earth unceremoniously. “Helloooo?”

“Hello!” Priyanka half-shouts, blinking rapidly as she refocuses, and realises that Lemon has been speaking this entire time, and she’s been ignoring her in favour of a crisis over the significance of pain au chocolats. “Sorry, what?”

“I said -” Lemon quiets as another customer comes in and orders three colossal Danish pastries in a clipped, icy tone, glancing at Priyanka - who stares back - in wondering despair. “I said -” Her phone buzzes in a rapid, staccato rhythm, and she glances down at it, features falling. “Oh, fuck. _Great.”_

“What is it?”

Lemon gestures absently, tucking her hair behind her ear, and Priyanka tracks the movement like a hawk. “One of the girls in my group has had _another_ meltdown ‘cause of the pressure, and now she’s saying she wants to drop out. She does this _every time,_ but they’re saying this time she looks like she means it.” She drops her head, arms sprawled over the countertop. _“Just_ what I need, on top of everything else.”

She looks _dejected,_ and it’s such a stark juxtaposition from her fearless self-assurance that Priyanka feels a stab of pain herself, as though the news is hers to worry over. “If we fail because of this -”

Store policy enforces professionalism, but a customer’s comfort is always paramount, so Priyanka’s certain there’s a loophole somewhere in the rules that permits her to place a hand over Lemon’s wrist in an unspoken gesture of commiseration. Lemon seeks her gaze with a tentative, warming smile and curls her hand until their fingers form a lattice; those four points of contact brand themselves into Priyanka’s skin, an unflinching mark of proof that her proffered friendship was not rejected.

“Hey, look, if she leaves, that’s not on you. It’s just selfishness, right? You can try and change her mind, but at the end of the day, you need to worry about _you_ and about the girls who actually give enough of a shit to keep it together.”

“Thanks.” Lemon shakes herself out and shoves the last of her pain au chocolat in her mouth and stands. “I’m gonna have to go and sort things out, now, I guess. See if I can’t talk her out of this mental breakdown. Keep me in your thoughts today, yeah?”

“I always do - ?” Priyanka blurts, for although she is a paragon of a great many things, self discipline has yet to make it into that comprehensive list. A multitude of emotions flash across her face - confusion, then understanding, then alarm, then regret - but Lemon only laughs, pirouetting on the way to the door. “Good luck!”

And then Lemon is gone, and Priyanka wonders if she could have possibly been _more_ of an idiot.

* * *

“Knowing you? Probably,” Rita remarks, once Priyanka is finished relaying the interaction to her, and Priyanka splutters indignantly, as though Rita is wrong. “What? It wasn’t as bad as some of the things I know you could have said, _ma chérie._ You like to put your foot in your mouth.”

“I have game,” she protests, but the objection feels forced the minute it leaves her lips. “Okay, maybe not, but she _did_ laugh at me, and it wasn’t, like, a pity laugh, soooo…”

Rita rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything else about Priyanka’s inability to communicate smoothly. “Baby steps. But you don’t even have her number, and you haven’t spoken to her outside of your job, and it’s been _months.”_

“I’m working on it,” says Priyanka, who isn’t working on it. “I just needed to make sure she _liked_ me first, God!”

“God is no help here, _mon amie_.”

“God’s no help anywhere.” Priyanka throws her legs over the arm of the couch and drops back against the cushions with a displeased and dramatic sigh. Rita isn’t lying: she moves with the speed and purpose of a snail in a salt circle, an entertainer without any plans for permanence. “It’s just _hard,_ you know? How are you meant to ask a pretty girl out when you only see her for fifteen minutes every morning?”

Rita snags a pillow and throws it at her, nailing her square in the nose. “You write your number on the paper, you _idiote!”_

And oh, how Priyanka _hates_ how slick that is, how clever, how _movie perfect._ She throws the pillow back and misses Rita by several feet. “Well, what if she’s straight? What if she’s not even single?”

“‘What if’ this, ‘what if’ that - you’re making so many excuses I’m starting to think you don’t even like her!”

“Fuck you! I’m just -”

“A coward?”

Priyanka shuts her mouth, then opens it, then shuts it again. She glowers at Rita, who ignores her with the disparaging haughtiness of some 18th century monarch, smug in the knowledge that she’s right, because she _is;_ Priyanka has been avoiding broaching the topic of _friendship_ with Lemon, let alone anything more, surviving on quarter-hour scraps while ravenous for more.

But Lemon is _Lemon,_ and while Priyanka thinks decently of herself most of the time, she’s painfully aware that the blonde is probably out of her league. Rita would say they’re like day and night, summer and winter, yellow and blue - impossible to compare - but it’s difficult to believe when Lemon looks like _that,_ and when she’s always so damn _positive,_ talented and self-assured and _infuriatingly_ perfect.

Sullen, she changes the subject. “Kiki said she’s throwing a party here on Saturday.”

Rita hums. “Yes, she is, because she promised me I would not have to buy my own booze if I let her invite whoever she wanted, and I figured I would be getting more out of it than she would if I said yes.”

“You talked her into buying your _drinks_ for the night? Getting her to buy even _one_ for me when we’re out is like pulling teeth!”

“What? I let her stay in this house, so I have leverage. You second years are easy to manipulate.”

Priyanka scoffs. “I can’t _believe_ you.”

“Yes you can.” Rita turns her head to look at her, pursing her lips. “You should ask Lemon if she wants to come. There’s no better place to get to know her than at a party where you’re both drunk.”

Priyanka doesn’t know why the suggestion _surprises_ her, because Rita has the dogged persistence of a hungry shark in bloody waters when it comes to matters such as this, but it _does._ Her brain shuts down, then reboots like an old nineties computer, all strange buzzing and flashing lights. “Yeah, and when I make an ass of myself, I can go hide in your room.”

“I’m locking it,” Rita deadpans, leaning over so she can pat Priyanka’s shin affectionately. “You’ll be fine. Just ask her, and when she says yes -”

“If she says yes.”

 _“When_ she says yes, I will get to say I told you so.”

* * *

It’s 7:28 pm, and Priyanka is covering Boa’s shift (because of _course_ she is, it’s _Boa,_ and Boa avoids work like the plague) when Lemon comes stumbling into the bakery looking as though her zest for life - pun absolutely intended - has been squeezed from her body, wrung out and left empty for the birds.

Priyanka’s heart picks up the pace, concern and confusion warring in her chest. Lemon has been a consistent beacon of light in her life since the day she first walked in - not an ounce of that fire is recognisable in her here. “Lemon?” she murmurs in lieu of greeting.

Lemon drapes her upper body across the countertop and makes an unintelligible sound of distress, sinking sluggishly back onto the stool like a receding tide.

“This… isn’t 8:07 am,” Priyanka continues, instead of saying something kind and comforting, then freezes like a deer caught in headlights. She’s not sure what’s more alarming: Lemon’s formulaic appearances, or the fact that she’s somehow memorised that pattern. “I mean -” Lemon’s shoulders shake with silent laughter (or sobs - it’s difficult to tell), and she hopes that means she hasn’t fucked it up already.

“I have a tight schedule, okay?” she teases, propping herself up by the chin with her hand. “But yeah, uh, Kiki said you were working, and I didn’t have anywhere to go, and I just - I wanted to see you.”

“You know Kiara?”

Lemon rolls her eyes. _“Everyone_ knows Kiara. She helps a lot with setting up our big productions, ‘cause she’s got a better eye for that sort of thing than our own actual instructors.”

Priyanka nods - and then the rest of Lemon’s words catch up to her. “Wait. You wanted to see _me?”_ She says it incredulously, as though the idea is preposterous - and really, it is, because she’s just the girl who gives Lemon her pain au chocolats every morning and entertains her with stupid chatter, and she hasn’t ever considered it being anything _more_ than that from the blonde’s perspective.

But Lemon just flushes this pale pink colour and shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, I really needed someone to talk to.”

And that brings Priyanka back to Earth - and to the heart of the matter: Lemon’s blatant upset. “Bad day?”

It’s like a switch has been flipped; the colour drains from Lemon’s face, and her whole body begins to deflate. “I mean… our group went perfectly.” She sounds _exhausted,_ worn thin and overworked. “Which, you know, is great, but I was the standout, and the instructor for that module said I was more or less perfect, so -”

“But that sounds _amazing!”_

“Yeah, _maybe,_ but he pulled me aside and pretty much told me that my free time next semester is going to be _nonexistent_ because of all the extra stuff they’re going to be throwing at me.” Lemon sits up and runs her fingers through her hair. “I mean, I’m super excited, it’s just -”

Something isn’t adding up. Lemon had been thrilled by the prospect of extra work mere days ago, has always seemed capable of handling any amount of duty, and though Priyanka wouldn’t consider herself particularly observant, she’s learned to make exceptions for Lemon in almost every one of her flaws.

“Don’t you have anyone that can help you?”

Something dark crosses Lemon’s features, open eyes shuttering off, and Priyanka feels cold in the same way she feels cold when rain-heavy clouds cover the sun. “I don’t… have many friends.” She says it haltingly, each syllable less smooth than the last, and masks the vulnerability of the admission with a close-lipped, pained smile. “And if everyone didn’t hate me _before,_ they’re definitely going to now.”

“How come?” It doesn’t make _sense._ Anyone capable of possessing such infectious peppiness so early in the morning has to be an innately good person - Priyanka can’t fathom anyone meeting Lemon and despising her, unless they were dedicated to the pursuit of misery.

Lemon twisted her hands in her lap. “Dance school is, like, _crazy_ competitive. Everyone wants to be _the one,_ you know? So when they see me getting more attention than everyone else, or getting bigger parts in numbers and productions -”

“They get jealous and shun you,” Priyanka surmises. Lemon drops her cheek into the crook of her arm and nods. “Well, fuck them! It’s not your fault none of ‘em can dance.” That startles a giggle out of Lemon, and she preens indiscreetly. “I’m serious. Who even cares about them, anyway?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” A pause. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be throwing all this onto you. It’s not fair.”

Priyanka waves a hand dismissively, feigning flippancy. “It’s fine, I’ll just add it onto your next order.”

Lemon gasps in faux offence. “You’re _charging_ me for this?”

“Hey, I’m a minimum wage worker. A student’s gotta survive somehow.”

Lemon laughs, but it’s laced with something bittersweet, cyanide in coffee. “It’s kinda weird, actually, because I see you as a friend, but I’m really just a customer you can’t escape because this is your job.”

“No,” Priyanka denies, appalled - and then repeats herself more emphatically. “No! You’re my friend and I promise that even if I _could_ escape, I probably -” _(definitely, don’t kid yourself)_ \- “wouldn't. I like talking to you. I like _you.”_

Rita’s voice echoes in her head: _You like to put your foot in your mouth._ But also, _you should ask Lemon if she wants to come,_ and _coward._

And she’s _not_ a coward! She’s _Priyanka,_ and she’s biding her time, because sunflowers don’t bloom in December, and she wants this to be _good._

“Speaking of us being friends,” she begins, words at a million miles an hour to mask her embarrassment, “you busy this Saturday?”

Lemon does this thing where she cocks her head to one side like a curious little puppy hearing a new sound for the first time. “Nnno, I don’t think so, why?”

“‘Cause Kiara’s throwing a house party at her place and said I could bring anyone I wanted, and it sounds like you need a _break,_ soooo…” She lifts her hands, bouncing them gently like old weighing scales. “It works out, right? Right?”

“Of course she is. Of _course_ she did.” Lemon smiles, and it’s as though the clouds have parted once more, a rainbow framing the backdrop. “But yeah, I’d love to! I’ve not been to a house party in _ages._ Or… any party. Or a bingo night.” Priyanka snorts. “I’ve been like a hermit for the last few months, just dancing and studying twenty four-seven.”

Priyanka grimaces sympathetically - then claps her hands. “Great! Great. I can text you the details...?” She fumbles about for her phone, but Lemon stops her with a hand on her wrist, pen in hand.

“Here,” she says, just as Priyanka stammers, “Wh - ?”, tugging the cap off with her teeth and leaning over the countertop to scrawl what Priyanka _hopes_ is her number on her arm. “Text me later, yeah?”

Struck dumb, Priyanka gestures mutely in agreement. This close, Lemon’s perfume is this overpowering fog - it would take nothing to cross the distance between them, and Lemon’s hand is still curled against her wrist, pinning it to the countertop -

The door opens. A customer walks in. Lemon drops back into her seat; Priyanka darts back to the till.

“Text me later,” Lemon repeats, and then she’s gone, and Priyanka is so distracted by her departure that the customer has to repeat his order twice before it registers in her brain. Two Alexandertortes.

When he’s gone, and the bakery is empty, Priyanka looks down at the writing on her arm. A string of numbers, capped off with a heart.

She pulls her phone out from her pocket, miraculously more deft than she had been in front of Lemon, and hits a particular contact name. Her wrist smells of citrus, sharp and sweet all at once, when she lifts her phone to her ear.

Rita picks up on the fifth ring. _“Allô?”_

“Fuck you, you were right!” Priyanka shouts down the line, and Rita only laughs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im finally done !! this is where the lesbian happens
> 
> **CWs - the last little bit of this chapter contains literally the briefest sex scene known to man**
> 
> this fic is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are my own.  
> feel free to leave any concrit or regular comments !! if you want to chat more, i'm on tumblr @ [lemyanka](http://lemyanka.tumblr.com/) 😊
> 
> and lmk if you want more bakery au fics !! it's fun and lighthearted to write skjds

pri: You still coming early on Saturday??

lemon 🍋: yeah

pri: 5pm??

lemon 🍋: yes!!

pri: K cool

pri: If some weird senior citizen answers the door when you knock don’t worry

pri: That’s just Rita

lemon 🍋: why is there a senior citizen in kiara’s house

pri: It’s technically the senior citizen’s house

pri: Kiara’s her sister in all but blood so she lives there by default

lemon 🍋: i thought you said you lived with kiara

pri: I did and I do

pri: I also live with the senior citizen and her senior citizen friends

lemon 🍋: makes sense

pri: Look it’s a LOT cheaper than my other options were

\---

lemon 🍋: are you still at work

pri: yeah 😔 we’ve been swamped all day

lemon 🍋: is it busy now?? :P

pri: no thank GOD

pri: I was about to go feral I’m so TIRED

pri: I’m hiding round the back since boa’s finally shown up to her shift for once

lemon 🍋: will you still be there in like

lemon 🍋: 20 mins

pri: yeah im still on for another hour

lemon 🍋: ✨ good ✨

lemon 🍋: i’ve got something i want to show you

pri: ?????

lemon 🍋: ✨ you’ll see when i get there ✨

\---

pri: i’ve been staring at this paragraph for like

pri: 5 years

pri: and something about it looks REALLY wrong but i don’t know what it is

lemon 🍋: let me see it?? a second pair of eyes always helps :P

pri: [ _An image of a paragraph from a typed essay._ ]

pri: am I going insane?? please tell me im not going insane

lemon 🍋: you used the wrong there

pri: where

lemon 🍋: everywhere

pri: …

pri: OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE

pri: thank you

lemon 🍋: ✨ you’re welcome ✨

lemon 🍋: is it hard?

pri: is what hard

lemon 🍋: being that much of an idiot

pri: i

pri: what the fuck

pri: hello?? HELLO???

lemon 🍋: 💛💛💛

\---

pri: i hate writing essays

pri: it’s been six hours and my back KILLS from bending over

lemon 🍋: 😉

pri: jfc wait for the 3rd date at least

lemon 🍋: 🥺🥺🥺

pri: i know

pri: cockblocked by societal expectation

lemon 🍋: have you ever tried the alexander technique

pri: is that a sex thing

pri: rita says hi btw

lemon 🍋: rita as in senior citizen rita??

pri: the one and only

lemon 🍋: hi grandma rita

lemon 🍋: and not really

lemon 🍋: it’s to improve your posture and movement

pri: that still sounds incredibly sexy

lemon 🍋: it’s gentle and hands on

pri: still sounding sexy

pri: you should give me a demonstration

pri: wink. wink.

lemon 🍋: what happened to being cockblocked by societal expectation

pri: oh fuck you

lemon 🍋: wait for the third date at least 😜

\---

“I am so fucked,” Priyanka tells Rita on the Friday when they’re washing the dishes, words emphatic. Rita turns a severe, questing gaze on her, the barest hints of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“If you’re lucky,” she says nonchalantly, plucking a wet bowl from Priyanka’s hands and turning away from her wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression.

It takes her a good minute to formulate a response.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m not taking that from someone who’s too old to even _have_ sex anymore.”

For that, Rita _whips_ her with her wound-up towel, a sharp _crack_ against the back of her upper thighs that stings like a bitch and forces a startled, high-pitched scream out of her.

“Ow, fuck, fucking _hell,_ Rita!”

“What did you say about me?” And now Rita’s all saccharine words and angelic smiles, danger masked like a horde of piranhas beneath the murky surface of a river. Priyanka turns away from her with a horrified wheeze, dunking her hands in soapy water to mask the minor tremor.

“Nothing, _nothing!”_

They finish the dishes in silence, and if Priyanka can’t sit down right for the rest of the evening, then she refuses to let Rita know about it.

* * *

Priyanka’s drunk, fuzzy round the edges, and she only knows it because Boa’s singing no longer feels like an assault on her hearing, having long-since become shit - but tolerable - background noise, and because Kiara’s repeated suggestion of doing body shots is sounding less and less questionable.

Ilona has stopped bickering with people for a glorious five minutes (Priyanka doesn’t know Ilona all that well, but she’s glad that she’s no longer talking); Rita is speaking to Scarlett, who had, only a few minutes prior, been locked in a heated verbal battle with Ilona; and Lemon -

Lemon is _supposed_ to have gone to the bathroom, but it’s been close to ten minutes and there’s no sign of her. Priyanka glances around the room, drains her drink, then stumbles to her feet, blinking rapidly when the ground lurches beneath her.

She catches Kiara’s eye on the way out into the hallway, but gestures dismissively at her raised eyebrows; the _Québécoise_ shrugs one shoulder in response, returning to her previous task of harassing Boa.

“... like to make a scene.”

Priyanka pauses. Tilts her head back and looks halfway up the staircase at Lemon’s legs, the rest of her body obscured by landing, then moves until she’s stood at the bottom of the steps. Lemon’s stood with one hip cocked, leaning on the banister to steady herself and nodding earnestly - and sat on the very top stair, a duvet wrapped around her shoulders, is Jimbo.

Much like Lemon is a nickname, so is Jimbo - but while Priyanka _knows_ Lemon’s real name, she’s never known Jimbo as anything _but,_ and that, admittedly, is a little disconcerting.

Part of her is convinced that Jimbo wasn’t _born,_ but instead materialised one day in Victoria, British Columbia, fully formed. Jimbo’s degree is a mystery, much like her home life, her family, and anything else beyond the city from which she comes and the fact that she somehow knows Rita. She’s just… Jimbo. There’s nothing more or less to her identity beyond that.

That, in and of itself, is pretty weird, but what’s stranger still is that Priyanka has never thought to _ask._ There’s something strangely _fun_ about Jimbo being this unknowable enigma - that, and the fact that Priyanka isn’t even sure how to break the ice.

“Lemon!” Priyanka shouts, and if she were any less drunk, she’d probably be embarrassed by how proud she is that she doesn’t slur when she speaks. “I thought you’d died! - Hiii, Jimbo.”

Jimbo waggles the fingers of her right hand. She’s a little crazed behind the eyes, no doubt a consequence of the stresses of her ongoing stalemate with Rita and studying… whatever it is she’s studying.

Lemon reclines util her back’s pressed to Priyanka’s front, but she’s still studying Jimbo. “Why’re you not dow’ there w’ everyone else?” she asks, and Priyanka realises that Lemon’s even drunker than _she_ is, words significantly less intelligible.

Jimbo opens her mouth as though to answer, then closes it, a peculiar expression on her face, but Lemon seems so curious that Priyanka can’t leave her hanging.

“Jimbo’s grounded,” she elaborates in a whispered tone. Lemon, to her credit, only takes it in her stride; she nods resolutely, as though the idea makes perfect sense.

“How ‘s a _grown person_ get _grounded_ in her own ‘ouse?”

“‘Grounded’ is a dramatic term. You are an adult, even if you don’t always act like it.”

Priyanka freezes, eyes widening in comical alarm. Jimbo’s eyes wander from Lemon’s face down, past where they stand, and focus on the bottom of the stairs.

The tension’s electric, so thick it could probably be cut with the flat edge of a knife, so Priyanka ushers Lemon down the stairs, under Rita’s cutting gaze and back into the party.

“Jimbo likes to get on Rita’s nerves,” she explains at Lemon’s questing glance. “I don’t even know why they live together. They fight like old ladies in a care home over _everything_ \- or, well, Jimbo fights, and Rita just sort of stands there threateningly. I don’t even remember what this one’s about! Probably stealing food, or _something.”_

Lemon’s eyes crinkle in a laughing smile. “Is Rita always that…?” She moves her hand in some strange, interpretive dance.

“Oh, yeah,” Priyanka stage-whispers, glancing over her shoulder. “One time, she beat my ass with a towel whip so hard I couldn’t sit down for the rest of the _day._ I had to sleep on my _stomach,_ it was that bad.”

That earns her a sympathetic wince. “I like getting spanked, but that’s too much even for me,” Lemon says nonchalantly, as though discussing the weather, and Priyanka feels like she’s been suckerpunched, trying desperately to pretend as though she’s not committing that information to memory as though her life depends on it.

She opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Lemon looks up at her and has the audacity to _wink_ \- then she’s gone from her side, weaving her way towards Kiara, who’s _still_ chattering about body shots.

“You coming?” Lemon calls from across the room.

Priyanka’s helpless to do much besides follow.

* * *

In the end, they wind up on the couch together, Lemon’s legs thrown over Priyanka’s lap. Everyone else has long-since left, having taken cabs home - except Scarlett, who’s passed out and snoring lightly in an armchair with a blanket haphazardly draped over them.

“Sooo…” Priyanka drums her fingers against Lemon’s knee. “How are you getting home?”

Lemon scrunches up her face in distaste at the mention of _getting home._ “Walking, probably,” she says. “I know th’ path, so -”

“I don’t think so.” That’s Rita, ever the voice of reason, materialising in the doorway. She’s got her arm around Kiara’s waist, holding her up, and Kiara’s head’s on her shoulder, eyes closed.

Priyanka squints at her. “... is she dead?”

Rita jostles her a little, and she flops limply, offering no verbal response to the disturbance.

“Dead _weight,_ maybe,” Rita snorts. “She out-drank herself - and everyone else at the party. I’m putting her to bed, but Lemon -” she turns her attention to the blonde - “you might as well stay the night; we can’t have you walking home out in the dark all by yourself, _especially_ since you aren’t sober right now.”

It’s a fair point. Priyanka nods agreeably.

“You can sleep with Priyanka, since she has a double bed and because she’s the reason you’re even here, and I expect _no disturbances.”_

Priyanka’s jaw drops - first at the arrangement, then at the accusation.

“You - I - _Rita,”_ she stammers.

Rita offers her a mawkish, innocent smile and swans out of the room, dragging Kiara with her - and then it’s just Priyanka and Lemon. The latter looks at the former expectantly, hands folded neatly in her lap.

Priyanka clears her throat a little too loudly. “Well!” she announces, leaping unsteadily to her feet, “let’s go sleep.”

\---

Priyanka’s pyjamas are _just_ too big for Lemon, nightshirt hanging loosely over her shoulders, and she looks so cute that it’s almost ridiculous.

They take opposite sides of the bed, Lemon closest to the door, and Priyanka lays with her back to the blonde, staring at the sliver of light beneath her curtains.

“You sure you’re cool with this?” Priyanka asks for what might be the thousandth time. “Sleeping with me, I mean. This is, like, the first time we’ve hung out, but I _promise_ I’m not gonna feel you up while you can’t see me or anything.”

The bed shifts slightly with Lemon’s quiet giggling. “I mean, I’d not _mind,”_ she says, “I’ve _kind_ of been trying to hint that I like you for a while now.”

“Mm,” Priyanka says, eyes heavy and half-shut, only half-listening. “Yeah, right, okay.”

Things slot into place several moments later, once Priyanka’s sluggish brain has processed every mumbled syllable. _I’ve_ kind _of been trying to hint that I like you for a while now._

Oh.

_Oh._

It’s as though she’s been struck by lightning. Suddenly wide awake, Priyanka rolls over towards Lemon, faces mere inches apart.

“Wait,” she blurts, “you like me? As in - you _like_ like me?”

It seems impossible, even as she weaves together the evidence, needle and thread pulling points into place. “For _real_ real?” She hesitates. “Is it the pain au chocolates? I didn’t actually bake any of them myself, ‘cause I’m really shit at making food, but -”

“Pri. Shut _up.”_

There’s more laughter in the dark, and _oh,_ that’s Lemon’s hand, sliding clumsily under her pyjama shirt and against bare skin, and there’s something about its gracelessness that makes it so damn _perfect._

“You’re so fucking _stupid,”_ Lemon murmurs, low and reverent as though it’s a prayer, and Priyanka wonders if wires have crossed somewhere in her brain for her to feel _flattered._ She thinks that at this point, anything that comes out of Lemon’s mouth is worth wanting.

“We’re really drunk,” Priyanka says, because someone has to pretend to be responsible. _“You’re_ really drunk.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Lemon insists. Her thumb’s digging into Priyanka’s hip and Priyanka can feel her already-pitiful self control waning, first crushed by alcohol and now by this - a single, maddening point of contact.

She can barely make out the lines of Lemon’s face but she knows it well enough to know that there’s a strand of hair curling over her temple because she’s constantly tucking it behind her ear, and Priyanka mimics that motion now, palm lingering against Lemon’s cheek.

“Don’t throw a bitch fit in the morning,” she warns, a final window through which to escape.

Lemon, being Lemon, grabs the metaphorical latch and wrenches it shut, responding almost petulantly.

“Are we gonna make out or not?”

And, well - it’s difficult to argue with a point like that, even when Lemon starts kicking off her shorts and pushing one of Priyanka’s hands between her thighs. Priyanka gets her to come like that, fucking her with two fingers, thumb circling her clit and three fingers on her tongue to muffle her mewling cries. She gets off against Lemon’s thigh, messy and rushed, and Lemon murmurs nonsense that she can’t quite make out over the rush of blood in her ears but that fills her with heat regardless.

“That was a bit more than making out,” Lemon says once they’re spent, breathing shallow and uneven.

“You started it!” Priyanka retorts. Her eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that she doesn’t miss the way Lemon sticks her tongue out as she shifts closer and throws a leg over Priyanka’s waist. “And anyway, you loved it, don’t lie.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Lemon shrugs, burrowing close. Priyanka snickers. “... You up for round two?”

Priyanka shuts her eyes and furrows her brow as though thinking about it. Then: “Yeah, sure, why not?”

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading chapter one !! comments and kudos are always appreciated 😊  
> chapter two is already in the works and will be up asap <3


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